Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on; I thought to see thy children Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on; And I, too, shall find slumber With my lost one in the earth;— Let none light up the ashes Again on our hearth! Let the roof go down !-let silence On the home for ever fall, Where my boy lay cold, and heard not Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on; THE MUSIC OF ST PATRICK'S [THE choral music of St Patrick's Cathedral, Dublin, is almost unrivalled in its combined powers of voice, organ, and scientific skill. The majestic harmony of effect thus produced is not a little deepened by the character of the church itself, which, though small, yet with its dark rich fretwork, knightly helmets and banners, and old monumental effigies, seems all filled and overshadowed by the spirit of chivalrous antiquity. The imagination never fails to recognise it as a fitting scene for high solemnities of old-a place to witness the solitary vigil of arms, or to resound with the funeral march at the burial of some warlike king.] "All the choir Sang Hallelujah, as the sound of seas."-MILTON. AGAIN! oh! send that anthem-peal again Through the arched roof in triumph to the sky! Such sounds the warrior awe-struck might have heard, Such the high hearts of kings might well have stirred, These notes once more! - they bear my soul away, All is of Heaven! Yet wherefore to mine eye THE LONELY BIRD Wherefore must rapture its full heart reveal 211 THE LONELY BIRD FROM a ruin thou art singing, By thy summer music stirred. Where harps no more are heard: Thy songs flow richly swelling As from its cavern-dwelling A stream in glory bounds Though the castle-echoes catch no tone Of human step or word, Tho' the fires be quenched and the feasting done, O lonely, lonely bird! How can that flood of gladness Rush through thy fiery lay, From the haunted place of sadness, From the bosom of decay While the dirge-notes in the breeze's moan, Through the ivy garlands heard, Come blent with thy rejoicing tone, O lonely, lonely bird? There's many a heart, wild singer! Where Love hath left his bower: THE IVY-SONG OH! how could fancy crown with thee, Companion of the Vine? Ivy thy home is where each sound Of revelry hath long been o'er; Where song and beaker once went round, But now are known no more; Where long-fallen gods recline, There the place is thine. The Roman on his battle-plains, Though shining there in deathless green Around the victor's grave Urn and sculpture half divine THE IVY-SONG The cold halls of the regal dead, Where lone the Italian sunbeams dwell, Where hollow sounds the lightest tread Ivy they know thee well! And far above the festal vine 213 Thou wav'st where once proud banners hung, Where mouldering turrets crest the RhineThe Rhine, still fresh and young! Tower and rampart o'er the Rhine, High from the fields of air look down Ivy Ivy all are thine, Palace, hearth, and shrine, 'Tis still the same: our pilgrim-tread On the mute path of ages fled, Still meets decay and thee. And still let man his fabrics rear, August in beauty, stern in power- Days pass, thou Ivy never sere ! And thou shalt have thy dower. All are thine, or must be thine- |